


For want of a nail

by Anonymous



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cheating, Dubious Consent, M/M, Marriage, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of drug addiction (side character), Mentions of suicide (side character), Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:33:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29529906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: After five years together, Laurent has only one certainty. He hates his husband.
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince), Laurent/Nikandros (Captive Prince)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 112





	For want of a nail

**Author's Note:**

> TW: lies during sex, mentions of blood, mentions of suicide, mentions of drug addiction. The Regent is mentioned once in passing. Nothing is terribly graphic, but it's still worth mentioning.

Laurent tries not to compare them. 

Fucking him is not a competition—if it were, maybe Damen would fuck him more often, in a different position and less like he’s trying to apologize for something—and Laurent _certainly_ doesn’t want to think about Nikandros when he’s with Damen, or about Damen when he’s with Nikandros. But it happens sometimes. 

It’s hard not to conjure up their differences when Nikandros is smothering him against the bedding, fucking into him in short, hard thrusts. Laurent’s dizzy from all the blood flowing to his head and the lack of air in his lungs, but he’s not so far gone that he can’t think. 

“He’s bigger than you,” Laurent says. He feels the stutter in Nikandros, the quiet that settles over the room like dust, and it only urges him to go on. "He's so much bigger than—"

Nikandros' hand tangles in his hair. Laurent lets himself enjoy the prickling of his own scalp as Nikandros tugs once, hard, to lift his head off the mattress.

"Say it again."

Laurent opens his mouth, but the words never make it past his teeth. Nikandros pulls his hair even more roughly as his other hand finds Laurent's throat with practiced ease.

His fingers close like a vice, and Laurent chokes on his last breath.

"He—"

Nikandros' grip tightens. His breath is warm against the shell of Laurent's ear. "Go on."

Laurent can't. There's no air in his lungs, in his throat. His head feels like a thrumming balloon, hot and ready to burst, and the sensation only grows worse when Nikandros forces his face into the bedding. Again.

Nikandros' cock has stilled completely inside him, the stretch of it almost painful. It's as though he really is waiting for Laurent to say the words before he allows himself to move again.

Writhing, Laurent reaches back blindly for Nikandros' hip—the only place on each other's bodies they touch in public, with Damen watching. It means a lot of things, the squeeze of that bone. _Stop_ , and _later,_ and _ignore him._

Right now Laurent wants it to mean something different, something it's never meant before. A quiet _thank you._

By the time Nikandros lets him breathe again, it's too late. Laurent has floated away, cotton in his ears, blood in his mouth because he's bitten through his own tongue. It’s like falling asleep. 

He wakes up later to drying come on his back and a room so dark and empty it makes his hands shake. The finger-shaped marks on his neck are red and angry, but they won’t bruise. Nikandros knows better than to leave a trace behind.

The other side of the bed is cold. Untouched.

*

"I know," Damen says. He looks guilty with his wringing hands and tilted head, but Laurent knows better. "I promise I'll make it up to you. We can go to Starburst tomorrow night, I'll make the reservations."

Laurent rolls over on the bed, away from him. He doesn't want to argue, not today. Even if Damen is telling the truth about his last-minute meeting with Makedon, Laurent doesn't want to give up his anger. 

It's taken him too long to be angry at Damen.

"Go," Laurent says into his pillow. Like this, with his knees to his chest, half-tucked into bed, he feels like a child. It's a dangerous feeling. "It doesn't matter."

And it doesn't. Five years together is hardly a thing that needs to be celebrated. Laurent bought him a silk tie last year—the fourth year's gift is linen, according to Google, but back then Laurent had still wanted the best for Damen—and he got a few first editions in return.

This anniversary finds them in more austere terms: a canceled dinner date and two cheap _Happy anniversary!_ cards, the kind with glitter and poorly drawn balloons. Laurent has never liked wood anyway. He'd rather have marble everything, like the one Nikandros’ kitchen counter is made of.

Damen circles the bed. He bends over, his work shirt crinkling like paper in the process, and presses a kiss to Laurent's forehead. 

"I love you," Damen says. He tucks a lock of hair behind Laurent's ear. "Don't wait up for me."

Laurent doesn't reply. Eyes closed, he pretends the soft hand on his cheek is someone else's.

*

_Wear it today_ , the text reads. 

Laurent stares at the red plug for a long time. There are so many things he wants to type back— _don't order me around, I have important meetings today, fuck you_ —but the knowledge that Damen is sitting next to Nikandros right now at the office is enough to stop him.

It isn't guilt, exactly, but rather a sick kind of thrill. 

He gets dressed slowly afterward, savoring the way his tight jeans keep the plug where it should be, so deep into Laurent it feels like it might get lost if he's not careful.

At last, he replies: _can barely feel it_

Nikandros, of course, doesn't text back.

*

He's marking his last paper when Damen comes home. Some poor soul named Aimeric decided he knew enough about the meaning behind Jane Austen's adverbs to write a seven-page essay on the topic, and now Laurent has to deal with the awful consequences of that decision. 

It's only half-past six, which means Damen is an hour too early. Laurent watches him take off his shoes by the door, his apprehension ever-growing. Nothing good has ever come out of excessive punctuality.

"Hello," Damen says as he leans in for a kiss. His smile is blindingly bright. "How was your day?"

Laurent puts the cap back on his red pen. "Slow. Yours?"

"It was very good. I closed a deal on the Williams case."

"Congratulations," Laurent says, and hopes it doesn't sound awkward.

If things were different, Laurent would suggest they celebrated. A bottle of white wine, the kind Laurent's father used to keep under lock, and maybe sushi. Then would follow the inevitable stripping of Laurent's clothes, the bending over the arm of the couch, and, finally, the sharp intake of breath before the breach.

But things are what they are, and so Laurent stays silent.

"Kastor is taking time off," Damen says. "I was thinking I could do the same when he comes back."

There it is, Laurent thinks. That's what the excitement is about.

Damen shifts on the couch, moving closer to Laurent. His clothed thigh is hot against Laurent's naked one, uncomfortably so, but Laurent wills himself to stay put. He would have changed out of his bedclothes if he'd known Damen was coming home early.

"We could go down to Marlas," Damen says. "Rent out that room you liked so much last time, the one with the nice view. I miss the beach."

The petty reply sits heavy on Laurent's tongue. He swallows it back down, putting his head on Damen's shoulder. "I'd like that."

Damen presses a kiss to his hair. Laurent barely feels it. "Okay. I'll let Kastor know then."

"How long—"

"A week. Maybe two."

Laurent breathes slowly to keep the blood from rushing to his head all at once. Fury tends to make a fool out of him.

"I can't be away for two weeks," Laurent says. At that moment, he hates Damen more than anyone in the world. "It's finals season."

"Oh. I guess I—would you mind? If I stayed there after you left. Just to unwind a little."

Laurent closes his eyes. It's easier like this. He lets the words hang between them until they become too heavy, until he's certain he won't be able to take back the silence he's created.

"Of course I don't mind. You deserve a break."

"Thank you," Damen says, and Laurent can hear the small smile in his voice. "We'll Skype every night before bed. Or in the mornings after you've had your coffee."

“I’d like that,” Laurent says again. Sometimes he feels like one of those talking dolls, the kind with a button on their bellies, repeating the same phrases over and over again. _I’d like that, yes, I love you, yes, I don’t mind._

Damen puts his feet on the coffee table. There’s a blond hair stuck to one of his socks, and they both pretend it isn’t there. It could be Laurent’s, after all.

“I’m thinking Chinese for dinner,” Damen says as he drapes his arm over Laurent’s shoulders. “Do you want some eggrolls?”

Laurent plays with his pen and lets himself be tucked into Damen’s side. His nod comes a little too late, offbeat, but Damen doesn’t notice. And if he does, he doesn’t seem to care.

*

Later in bed, with the lights off and Damen's soft breathing against his nape, Laurent types out a text.

_take a week off._

*

“Unwind,” Nikandros says. He sounds amused. “Was that the exact word he used?”

Laurent doesn’t bother with a reply. Instead, he reaches out and plucks the lit cigarette from Nikandros’ mouth. He’s swift enough that Nikandros can’t complain through his surprise.

The tiles of Nikandros’ balcony are painfully cold under Laurent’s bare feet, but he ignores them in favor of not going back inside to find his socks. Catching a cold and being bedridden for a few days sounds far from awful.

There’s a sad sizzling sound when Laurent puts the cigarette out on the banister, leaving behind a single black dot. “He said ‘unwind a little’. Why does it surprise you? It’s not like he’s ever been clever when it comes to euphemisms.”

Nikandros stares at him. He’s naked except for his boxers, and the muscles of his front move with every breath he takes. It's a shame Laurent cares so little about that kind of beauty. Some days he thinks he’d let Nikandros fuck him even if he was twenty years older, and horrible, and not Damen’s closest friend.

It’s a scary thought.

“So you’ll do it then,” Nikandros says. “You’ll come back and leave him there to relax.”

“Yes. What else is there to do? I fucking hate the beach.”

Nikandros lets out a low hum. “You would have stayed if he’d asked you to.”

A sad-looking man crosses the street ten floors below them. He’s wearing a suit, but no scarf or mittens or hat. Laurent almost feels bad for him.

“He asked me,” Laurent says, “and I said no.”

It’s a little more complicated than that, and Nikandros knows it. They stand there for a while, watching the twinkling lights of other people’s homes, men and women and children walking around in a hurry to get away from the cold, clouds drifting by.

Laurent’s phone starts ringing in the kitchen.

“We could go somewhere too,” Laurent says, obviously stalling. He doesn’t want to talk to Damen right now. Or Auguste. Or whoever is calling him. “A week isn’t—“

“A week’s a long time.”

Too long, is what Nikandros means. People might disappear for a weekend, book a hotel room and fuck for twelve hours straight, but not seven days. That’s the sort of thing lovers do.

It’s fine, Laurent thinks as he makes his way inside. There are surfaces at home they haven’t fucked on yet. Like Damen’s desk, for example.

*

Auguste takes him out for breakfast on Saturday. He doesn’t ask Laurent why he’s not spending the first day of the weekend with his husband, or why he hasn’t been taking any calls, or why he’s started biting his nails again. In return, Laurent doesn’t ask him about the little cocaine bag in the glove compartment of his car.

As they sit down at the too-small table at Mello’s, Laurent tries to remember what he ordered last time he was here with Damen.

Herbal tea, probably. It goes well with Xanax.

"So," Auguste says. He's yet to touch the pancakes he ordered under the guise of sharing them with Laurent. "How are your classes?"

Laurent, who only ever teaches _one_ class, doesn't bother correcting him. He doesn't bother with a lot of things these days.

"Fine. Half of my students will pass."

"That's better than last year. How many—"

"Only five out of thirty-two," Laurent says. "I've been lenient this year, I suppose."

Auguste takes a long sip of his coffee. He's always ordered it the same way—a splash of milk, three of sugar—ever since Laurent was old enough to join him at coffee shops and libraries and anywhere that wasn't their uncle's house.

"How's Damen? Kastor told me you two are going away in a month or so." Auguste smiles. It draws attention to the silver hairs in his otherwise golden beard. "A romantic escapade."

Their knees brush under the table only once before Laurent shifts, crossing his legs.

"He's fine," Laurent says. Then, in the same breath, "Everything's good. It's only a week at Marlas."

Very, very slowly, Auguste says, "You hate the beach."

In a wild fantasy Laurent indulges in before going to sleep, he always pictures himself saying the words clearly and unaffectedly. 

He pictures everyone's reactions. For some reason, he and Auguste are always at a coffee shop when Laurent tells him about Nikandros. Auguste opens his mouth and says nothing sometimes, but every once in a while he takes Damen's side, angry and self-righteous and ashamed on his friend’s behalf.

There are variations to that fantasy. With Vannes, they're taking shots at a bar. With Kastor, they're at a kitchen while a family dinner happens two doors away. 

But Laurent can never bring himself to do it.

"The things we do for love," Laurent says.

Auguste lifts a trembling fork to his mouth. It's his first bite of the day and, as far as Laurent knows, it could be his last. A trip to the bathroom will surely kill his appetite, and if the way his leg is bouncing under the table is any indication, the trip will come sooner than later.

They talk about everything and nothing for the next twenty-five minutes. Auguste’s job is a boring dead end, but it pays well. He gets to boss other people around and sit in an office chair—Swedish design, no poking springs—for eight hours a day. Most importantly, it means people are required to knock before entering his office. That gives Auguste enough time to dust off the white lines on his desk.

As they’re getting ready to leave, Auguste puts a hand on Laurent’s shoulder, his pinky grazing the side of Laurent’s neck. Auguste can’t see it, but there’s a bruise forming there, under Laurent’s shirt. 

“Dad would like to have lunch with us next weekend,” Auguste says. “It’s been a while.”

That’s not why Aleron wants them to visit. Laurent doesn’t point out that their mother’s birthday is coming up; he knows Auguste knows.

A single red drop lands on the front of Auguste’s white shirt. 

“Your nose is bleeding,” Laurent says, and steps away.

*

Damen runs his thumb along the edge of Laurent's hipbone. Despite the room being dark, Laurent can still make out the shape of his body on the bed, under his own body. Damen with his head thrown back, trying not to thrust into Laurent. Damen with his wandering hands.

Damen, who stills completely when Laurent starts to sink down on his cock. His words come out disconnected, as though through a fog. "Stop—I haven't—"

"I took care of it," Laurent says. It is, like most things he tells Damen, a lie. "Fucked myself while you were in the shower."

Pleased by that answer, Damen relaxes under Laurent's hands again. If he notices how slowly Laurent is taking his cock, he does not comment on it. 

As always, the stretch is impossible to ignore. Damen is most peculiar about how he likes to fuck Laurent—three fingers first, too much lube, no condom—and sometimes Laurent indulges him. On those days, the good ones, Laurent likes it. He enjoys the tease of it, the chase of his own pleasure, and he enjoys Damen's decency. 

Today is not a good day.

Once Laurent is full of his cock, Damen shifts them both so he has Laurent trapped under him. There's a kiss somewhere in the process, and then Damen is thrusting hard and without pause into Laurent, whispering into his ear the things he always whispers.

The pain is sharp, and every thrust only makes it spread more throughout his body. Laurent's thighs tremble with it. He hears his own whimpers, stuttered because of the rhythm Damen has picked up, and thinks for a second of stopping it all. 

But then Damen kisses him, open-mouthed and wet, and it's suddenly over. 

Out of breath, Damen lies down next to Laurent. He says, "Did you—"

"Yes," Laurent says. And maybe it's not a lie after all. There's a widening damp spot on the mattress.

Damen rolls over to press a kiss to Laurent's temple. "Let me get a towel."

"It's fine."

"You'll be angry in the morning when there's dried come on the sheets."

Laurent tries to sit up and stop Damen from moving, but the ache is too big. "Don't—"

The light turns on. For a blindingly bright second, Laurent thinks he's gotten away with it.

And then Damen's hands are all over him, pulling the sheets away to get a better look. "Is that blood? Laurent, what the—"

"It's fine."

"—fuck is wrong with you? Why didn't you tell me to stop?"

Laurent looks down at himself. There are bright red dots on the mattress and a line of drying blood on the inside of his thigh where Damen's cock touched him as he pulled out. 

"It didn't hurt," Laurent says, but this time the lie is apparent. He tries again: "I didn't notice."

Damen disappears into the bathroom, swearing under his breath. When he emerges in his work shirt and pants, Laurent is standing by the bed on unsteady legs, ruined sheets in hand.

"Get dressed, we're going to the ER."

Laurent takes in a shaky breath. "No. You're being dramatic."

"You're still bleeding," Damen says flatly. "Stop being stupid and get dressed. The faster we get there the sooner we'll be back."

The pain makes Laurent docile. He doesn't want to do as Damen says, but by the time he finds a clean pair of underwear and his jeans, it's become obvious to both of them that Damen is right. Blood continues to trickle lazily down the inside of his thighs as he gets dressed, and every time Laurent looks up from his task it's to find Damen staring at him, angry and frustrated.

The drive to the ER is humiliating, as is the examination and the stitching back together of his own body at the hands of strangers. Silence clings to both of them for very different reasons during the process.

Once in the car, after Damen has come back from the pharmacy with a crinkled paper bag full of topical creams and painkillers, they're both silent and very still, each in their own seat. Something has been swelling between them and is now ready to burst.

Damen's fingers turn a dangerous shade of white around the steering wheel. "Did you do it on purpose?"

"No."

"Laurent."

"I said _no_."

"You also said you'd prepped yourself," Damen says, his voice so loud it bounces off the car doors and slams into Laurent’s face like a slap. It reminds Laurent that if only Damen hit him, things would be easier. "Do you have any idea how denigrating it was to stand there, knowing what they were all thinking?"

Laurent rests his head against the window. It's cold and damp, which goes well with his headache. "I can assure you it was more denigrating on my end."

Damen says something back, but Laurent doesn't hear him. He's too busy trying to ignore the way the stitches pull when he shifts. 

*

Two days later, over the phone, Nikandros says, "You shouldn't have done that."

Laurent stops trying to pour himself a glass of milk. The taste of it is horrid—it's the protein kind Damen drinks—but it helps him keep the painkillers down _and_ avoid heartburn. That's a price Laurent is willing to pay.

"I didn't do anything," Laurent says. "Has he been telling the whole office about our little midnight trip to the—"

"No. Just me. I asked him."

"Why?"

Nikandros huffs. The sound comes through tinny. "He looked like shit."

It's been a long time since Laurent has tried to understand what Nikandros gets out of their arrangement. It took Laurent months to convince himself to try, to know that Nikandros wouldn't go running to Damen the first time Laurent touched his cock under the dinner table. Damen and Nikandros care about each other in ways neither of them has ever cared about Laurent, and yet something between them has snapped, twisting, becoming unrecognizable even to themselves. 

There’s a reason Nikandros did not pull away that first time, or the next, or the one after that. There’s a reason why he fucks Laurent like he hates him. Laurent just hasn’t been able to figure it out yet.

“It was an accident,” Laurent says. “Won’t happen again.”

He stands there, in the middle of his too-empty kitchen, waiting for Nikandros to tell him what they both know to be true. But Nikandros is friends with Damen for a reason: they both like to pretend when it's for their benefit.

The call disconnects with a sighing sound, leaving Laurent alone to focus on his glass of milk and the three little red pills he'll have for breakfast.

If he was younger and more foolish, Laurent would flatter himself into thinking Nikandros is worried about him. If he was younger… 

Laurent cuts the thought off before it can take root. It does not do to think about those things.

*

Laurent pushes the pasta around on his plate, separating it from the cherry tomatoes and the basil. That activity, although pointless, is more entertaining than the conversation Kastor, Damen, and Nikandros are having.

Jokaste has tried to speak to him on three different occasions. Dutifully, Laurent ignores her. Bits and pieces of her conversation with Kyra reach his ears from time to time, details about the big upcoming project Jokaste is responsible for and how Kyra doesn't know how much longer she can put up with her boss. It should be enough to get him to join in, but instead, it just makes him feel a little sick.

He pushes his chair back and stands. For a painfully long second, all eyes are on him. 

"Bathroom," he says as Damen's mouth starts to open. He adds a smile just in case.

The walls of the hallway that connects Kastor's dining room to the bathroom are lined with pictures. Black, glossy frames for recent events—Jokaste's pregnancy announcement, Kastor and Nikandros at Kashel's wedding—and golden ones for things that have happened over ten years ago. Amongst those, there's a picture of Kastor and Damen as children, playing with a hose in Theomedes' garden. 

Laurent is thinking of smashing it when a pair of hands meet his waist. He doesn't need to turn around to know they're Nikandros'.

Eyes on the picture, Laurent says, “Do you ever wish you had a brother?”

“No,” Nikandros says. “Being an only child has too many perks.”

Laurent spots the lie without even looking for it. He understands, in a way. A life to live as one sees fit, without comparisons to be drawn, without the awkwardness of compulsory love. Nikandros doesn’t know what it’s like to share a room.

Or a burden.

Without letting himself think about it, Laurent turns around and presses his mouth to Nikandros’ slack one. His heart pumps blood at an alarming speed, and Laurent enjoys the dizziness it brings him. He wishes Damen’s footsteps would interrupt them. He wishes Nikandros would kiss him back.

“Coward,” Laurent says against unmoving lips. “Why did you follow me all this way if—”

Nikandros forces him to pull away completely. “I’m on my way to the kitchen. Kastor wants to open another bottle of wine.”

“And you offered to go get it.”

“Damen offered first. I thought I’d save him the trouble.”

Laurent steps away. He fixes his hair and his shirt, even though Nikandros has barely touched him. It’s a bit of a habit, this anal-retentiveness after each conversation. If Laurent could get away with it, he’d wear gloves to each encounter.

Nikandros watches him. The cashmere sweater he’s wearing felt good against Laurent’s hands, maybe too good, and he looks the way he probably does in his own house with no one else watching. 

“I took some days off,” Nikandros says. It sounds almost casual, like a shrug. “And I booked a room at the Kemptian Palace for three nights. Damen is going away to meet Halvik for the weekend.”

“He hasn’t—”

“He’ll tell you tonight. Try and act surprised.”

Laurent thinks he should say no. Thinks of Auguste’s tired face when he asked Laurent to join him at dinner with Aleron, thinks of what it means that Nikandros booked a room at the most expensive hotel in town just because Laurent mentioned he’s wanted to stay there ever since he came to the capital. 

“I can’t,” Laurent says. He’s aware of every change in Nikandros’ expression, or lack thereof. Strangely, he feels himself blush, cheeks growing warm despite his best attempts at smothering his embarrassment. “There’s still—the doctor said—”

“I know.”

Laurent has obviously misheard him. For clarification, he says, “You can’t fuck me.”

There are footsteps. They sound heavy, like boots connecting against wood. Kastor’s most likely. Damen drags his feet when he’s at his brother’s house.

Nikandros is several steps away from Laurent in an instant, back already turned as he heads to the kitchen. He doesn’t seem startled by the noise, and Laurent is glad. To be startled would be indecorous, given their situation.

As Nikandros disappears into the kitchen, Kastor comes into view.

“There you are,” Kastor says. He’s broader than Damen but shorter than Nikandros. Laurent often wonders what his cock looks like. “My brother was getting antsy.”

“I’m fine. I was just—” Laurent makes a vague gesture with his hand. His finger grazes a picture frame. “Was this Jokaste’s idea?”

“The decorations? Yes.”

“I like it.”

Kastor looks confused, but he smiles anyway. He’s been to Laurent and Damen’s apartment, knows there are no pictures on the walls or lining the bookshelves or plastered to the fridge. It must make him wonder.

At the table again, Laurent drinks his glass of water and ignores Damen’s hand on his thigh. It’s surprisingly easy.

*

Nikandros was wrong. Damen breaks the news to him three days later, in bed while Laurent is reading. 

“I have a business trip this weekend. Halvik wants me to oversee some cases Vask took on last month.”

Laurent turns the page. Any moment now, Catherine Earnshaw is going to die. “Okay.”

“I’ll be back on Monday.”

“Hmm.”

Damen’s hand on his book makes Laurent look up. It’s quiet in their room, the TV muted as a soccer game plays on and on, tiny men running after a white ball. 

“Are you listening to me?”

Laurent carefully removes Damen’s hand. “Yes. You’re going away for the weekend. Firm stuff.”

“You,” Damen says, and pauses. He’s wearing the shirt Laurent bought him three years ago at the Okton, the one that shows too much skin. Has he always worn it to bed? “I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong.”

That gets a reaction out of Laurent, despite all his self-control. It’s such an unusual thing for Damen to say.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Laurent says. He doesn’t even have to conjure up the words, they simply are inside his mouth. A force of habit. “You spoke, I heard you. The end.”

A silence Laurent doesn’t like fills the entire room. Usually, when Damen is quiet it means he’s too tired to argue, but this pause feels different. Laurent, struggling against it, sits up straighter on the bed, his book falling closed on his lap.

Damen shifts as well. They face each other on the mattress in a way they haven’t in a long time, both too present for it to feel comfortable.

“I miss you,” Damen says, and the force of his admission makes Laurent want to duck his head. It’s rough, the way he says it, and the squeezing of Laurent’s hand that follows only makes it all worse. “I miss talking to you, Laurent. You’ve been so—” The necessary pause. Then, the final blow: “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

In the rare daydreams he has that involve Damen, they're never in their bed when Laurent tells him. They're somewhere childishly dramatic, like someone's wedding reception or at the waiting room in a hospital. In those places, someone else will be in charge of wiping down the blood.

Nikandros is always there, in Laurent's head, and he faces Damen so Laurent doesn't have to.

It's a fool's dream, and Laurent knows it. Between him and Damen, Nikandros would never choose Laurent. And Damen would turn them both away if he knew. There'd be no coming back from it for either of them.

Damen's hands on his arms feel too warm. He's still talking, Laurent realizes slowly, but his words sound far away as though they're underwater.

"—with you," Damen says. His thumb strokes Laurent's elbow. "Maybe you should start seeing Paschal again."

The comment should make Laurent angry. Instead, it dampens his disdain, wet fingers to a candle's flame. Suddenly he's very tired. He can't imagine he's ever wanted this.

He wants it to be over.

"I know," Laurent says, "about Erasmus."

Damen slowly retrieves his hands. He doesn't look worried, which means he's going to try and play it off. Maybe he's known all along today would be the day Laurent brought it up, and that's why he's mentioned Paschal. Laurent being crazy has always been the perfect distraction.

"He's a nice kid," Laurent goes on. "Very polite."

Automatically, Damen replies, "He's not a kid."

And he's right. Erasmus isn't a kid, but he's almost ten years younger than Damen. Against their marriage, Erasmus seems to hoard all the superlatives. Youngest, bubbliest, most docile. Laurent has not seen him naked, but he pictures him soft and blushed all the same. The rosiest boy that has ever lain in Damen's bed.

"I don't know how you got that idea, but it's not like that." Damen shifts closer, knees touching Laurent's. His hands are fists on the bedding. "Erasmus is an intern. I don't— _Kastor_ hired him. I've spoken to him less than—"

"Damen," Laurent says. "I saw you together."

"It's not—"

Laurent doesn't care. He knows what Damen will say— _it didn't happen, you're seeing things again, I'm his boss_ —and it bores him just thinking about it. 

He slips out of the bed and grabs his book, Damen's monologue wrapping around him, following him out of the room. There's no getting away from it, not even when Laurent closes the bathroom door on Damen's face. The words leak in through the crack of the door and its keyhole and fill the bathroom the same way the silence had filled their bedroom.

Laurent curls up in the tub and reads.

*

Damen's gone the next morning. His clothes are in the closets, his shoes under the bed. Laurent checks just in case, and the discovery that everything is the same as the night before depresses him enough to call in sick to work.

Auguste calls when he's dozing off on the couch. Laurent lets it go to voicemail.

Again and again his phone trembles on the coffee table, incoming text after incoming text. Eventually, the apartment grows quiet, and Laurent rolls over so he can smother himself on one of the cushions. 

It's only good when Nikandros does it.

*

Damen is sitting on the edge of the couch when Laurent wakes up. There's no expensive bouquet of flowers, no gourmet chocolates or handwritten letters. There's just Damen in his suit, pretending to be sorry.

Laurent doesn't sit up. It's been a long time since he learned to lie down and take it. A whole life of it.

"I had him transferred," Damen says. “Torveld said he could get started on Monday.”

It's vague enough to not be considered a confession. Has Damen done it to stop himself? Or has he done it on behalf of Laurent's mental state?

Laurent feels bad for Erasmus before he can stop himself. But there'll be other jobs for him, Laurent knows. There always are.

Erasmus is young. He'll learn from this, just like Laurent did.

"Good," Laurent says and tries to fall back asleep.

Damen lets him.

*

Nikandros' cock slides into Laurent's mouth, still wet with strawberry lube, and hits the back of his throat. 

Laurent doesn't choke. He takes it, and takes it, and takes it. Nikandros fucks his mouth like a cunt, and Laurent pretends to enjoy it. For the sake of being performative, Laurent moans from time to time.

It's wet, lube and Laurent's drool slowly dribbling down to the base of Nikandros' cock, some drops reaching the bed. Laurent doesn't understand how men can stand the mess of it, the sloppiness, but this is something that can be done without any understanding. Laurent cherishes that; sometimes sex is not mechanical enough.

And then Nikandros opens his mouth and ruins it.

"You're so good," he says, hands on Laurent's hair to keep him choking. "It's—God, you're so fucking good for me. I—"

The praise continues. Laurent doesn't close his mouth or graze Nikandros' cock with his teeth. He simply waits, jaw slack and thumb pressed into his fist to keep himself from gagging. He’ll wait it out, he thinks, all he has to do is wait, and stop listening, and then his nausea will leave.

It does not.

Laurent pulls away in a haste, cock slipping out of his mouth with a wet sound, and heaves twice on the granite floor. He’s vaguely aware of Nikandros’ hands stilling in his hair, of the shift in the way they’re holding his head. 

Nothing but watery drool comes up, and Laurent has never been more grateful for not having any appetite in the mornings. He sits there on his haunches and wipes at his mouth viciously, making his own skin tingle.

His cheeks are wet with tears. He only realizes this when he rubs a shaky hand over his face, trying to push his hair away from his eyes.

Nikandros holds a cold water bottle to Laurent’s mouth, tipping it slightly so Laurent can drink from it without holding it himself. Laurent doesn’t know why Nikandros is doing it, but he’s grateful enough to not feel ashamed. The water slides down his throat, cold enough to soothe the burn the bile has left behind.

He catches a glimpse of Nikandros’ cock hanging soft and limp. Laurent can’t blame him.

“Okay?” Nikandros says. 

Laurent rearranges himself on the floor, sitting cross-legged. His ass will go numb soon from the cold tiles, but maybe that’s exactly what Laurent needs. The sweet dulling effect of his painkillers is slowly slipping away, leaving behind that familiar ache that throbs every time he moves. Coughing has not been fun these last weeks.

He wants to refuse when Nikandros lifts him off the floor and onto the bed, but he can’t bring himself to say the words. 

It’s a long time before he realizes how his body is curled up next to Nikandros, how his head is resting on something harder than the hotel’s silky pillow. There’s a hand in his hair, hesitantly pushing it away from his eyes, and that’s when reason returns to Laurent.

He shifts away.

“Don’t do that again,” Laurent says once he’s certain his voice won’t shake. 

Nikandros’ eyes on him burn like hot coals. “What? Let you suck me off after you specifically asked me to?”

The room tilts to the side, and yet nothing moves. Laurent’s stomach folds into itself as if trying to disappear. 

“The things you—” Laurent cuts himself off, lets the new wave of nausea roll over him. Then, “I don’t want to hear those things.”

A perfect line of lilac separates their bodies, the hotel sheets crisply clean and new-looking. That line is keeping Laurent sane.

“Why?” Nikandros says. “You’ve never had a problem before with the things I say to you.”

“You’ve never talked to me like that.”

Nikandros sits up with all the force that self-righteousness can give him. It’s a sudden movement, and even though it’s not Laurent’s body being jostled it still makes him want to throw up. “So I can call you a fucking whore, a waste of space, and a cheating slut, but the moment I say you’re good—”

“Fuck off,” Laurent says, squeezing his eyes shut. He wishes he could erase that word from the English language. “If you don’t like our deal anymore, there’s the door.”

Nikandros’ weight disappears from the mattress. There are shuffling sounds in the room—clothes, Laurent guesses, then shoes—and then the jingle of keys. When the door slams shut, Laurent doesn’t flinch. He was expecting it.

*

“Why isn’t Damianos here?” Aleron says exactly two seconds after Laurent lifts his spoon to his mouth for the first time. “After all the fuss he made to have my blessing, the least he could do is show up when I invite him over for lunch.”

Laurent turns to look at Auguste. His brother has his eyes on the soup in front of him, that creamy green awfulness that is his favorite. He’s probably glad Aleron’s attention is on Laurent because it means their father won’t notice the trembling of Auguste’s hand or the way he keeps sniffing like he has a cold. It’s unlikely, given that winter is over.

If Hennike was around… But no, Laurent thinks. If his mother was still alive things would be different, but not better. There’s no point in dissecting her death for reasons or inspiration. Laurent’s long since decided he won’t spend his last day bleeding out in a bathtub.

Paschal would be proud of him for that.

“Well?” Aleron says. He doesn’t like being ignored, especially not around this date. “Is he busy with work? What’s his excuse this time?”

“Dad,” Auguste says.

Laurent puts his fork down. He sees it unfold inside his head first, a silent movie that plays only for his eyes. He won’t dare, as usual. He’ll try to, but the words will get stuck to the roof of his mouth and he’ll be forced to swallow them back down. Besides, he has no script for it, no expected reaction. Kastor, Vannes, even Jord—those are the self-imposed limits of his fantasies.

But then he remembers Nikandros calling him good, holding that bottle of water for him, tucking him into bed, and suddenly Laurent wants to ruin that, too.

“I’ve been fucking Nikandros for ten months,” Laurent says, and waits.

  
  



End file.
